Irish End Games, Books 4-5-6

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  The fantasy dissolved with each heart-breaking turn but it was better than the reality she’d face if she were back at the compound waiting, hoping, and praying for him to return.

  As evening approached and the bleak light filtering in from the tops of the trees faded, Sarah began to see shadows flitting behind the trees. The forest isn’t a friendly place. It’s dark and creepy and there are things to hurt you here. Always right out of her vision, always morphing into darkness before she could capture and form a complete picture.

  At first, she called for John but hearing her voice made her sad and filled her with discouragement. She knew he would hear her anyway. There was no way she would take him by surprise. He and Gavin practically lived in the woods. He knew the sound of a human footstep. He would certainly hear his mother’s lumbering, crippled tread long before she came into view.

  She prayed only for the opportunity to speak with him. If he refused to come back with her, she would go with him. Time enough for all of that. John was a reasonable boy. He would listen to her. It occurred to Sarah that that was why he’d left a note.

  John would listen to her—except when he couldn’t in order to save a friend.

  The snap of the twig echoed loudly. Sarah gasped and swung her head in the direction of the sound. A form stood there where moments before there had been nothing. Sarah put a hand out to touch the nearest sapling for support. The form—half shadow, half man—moved closer. Sarah stared, rooted and stunned.

  It stood twice her height. Its arms outstretched wide. It staggered toward her, its jagged maw gaping and gnashing.

  The Wicker Man.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Fiona ran into Mike as he was coming out of the stable. His eyes full of anguish.

  How could I not have noticed that Sarah was gone? Or John? Where’s my head been?

  But Fiona knew. It was all she could do to keep Declan from melting down over the smallest incident at home—from where she’d set his tea mug to why the baby was crying. She’d tried to farm the child out as much as possible to minimize Declan’s trigger points. Sometimes just looking at Ciara set him off. Fiona was heartsick and exhausted.

  I can hardly hand my own child off forever. Sooner or later, the man’s going to have to come to terms with the consequences of loving something so much.

  And the idea of a lost or stolen child…well, that didn’t help matters at all.

  “Mike, you’ll be needing to calm down now,” Fiona said, putting her hand on her brother’s arm. “She won’t have gone far—”

  “Like Gavin didn’t go far?” Mike said. “Except nobody can find even a trace of him.”

  Mike pulled his arm from her. They both noticed Father Ryan come into view from between the first row of houses at the center of camp. Ellen Murdoch walked with him, her head bent, listening intently.

  “All I’m saying is we need you here,” Fiona said. “If Sarah did go out looking for John, she’s found shelter by now. Come on. It’s Sarah. She’s fine.”

  “How can you say that?” Mike yelled. The priest and Ellen stopped as they were walking by.

  “What’s happened?” Father Ryan said. “Is there something I can do?”

  “We can’t find Sarah,” Fiona said to him as Mike turned away.

  “I saw her last night.”

  Mike swiveled and planted himself with his hands on his hips in front of the smaller man.

  “I know I should have come to you straight away,” Father Ryan said.

  “Where?” Mike bit out the word, his teeth clenched.

  “At the rectory.”

  “What time?”

  “As it was burning. I tried to get her to come back with me but she was keen on going on to find the lad.”

  Fiona couldn’t stop the gasp at hearing this. It meant Sarah had been gone for hours.

  “Which way did she ride, Father?” she asked him.

  The priest shook his head. “Nay, lass, she was on foot.”

  Mike grabbed the priest by the arm.

  “She wasn’t on horseback?”

  “No,” Ryan said, looking worriedly from Mike to Fiona. “She had no horse.”

  Mike rubbed a hand over his face and looked beyond the priest as if trying to see the scenario in his mind. Fiona saw the anxiety etched in his eyes.

  “Was she hurt, Father?” Fiona asked.

  The priest hesitated. “I’m trying to remember.”

  “Was she hurt?” Mike roared.

  “Aye, she was limping. I’m that sorry, Mike,” the priest said, stammering. “I can’t think why I didn’t come and tell you straight off.”

  Fiona felt pity for the poor man. The local parish priest—his home, church and all his worldly belongings—burned out from beneath him and in the first hour in his new home, he’s already blotted his copybook.

  Mike turned toward the stable. Fiona ran after him.

  “Mike, you’re exhausted. You’ve been up all night. You haven’t eaten—”

  “Could you make me a sandwich? That’d be grand,” he said briskly as he pushed open the stable door.

  “Can you not wait until the others are back? Do you think falling off a horse yourself will find her any faster?”

  Mike grabbed a halter off its peg in the barn and went to the first stall. He slipped the cavesson on the big bay’s head and led it out into the aisle. He didn’t bother brushing the horse or even sweeping the saddle area but threw a pad and saddle on the animal and tightened the cinch. His horse, usually calm, reacted by shying violently when Mike pulled the stirrups down from the saddle.

  “Whoa, lad,” he said, his voice tense and abrupt. He pushed past Fiona as he led the horse outside. It was cold and the day was already filling with shadows. Mike wasn’t even wearing a hat.

  “Forget the sandwich,” he said. “No time.”

  “Mike, you’ll end up getting hurt. I’m begging you to wait until Declan returns and we can organize—”

  Mike mounted and wheeled the horse away without another word. She saw him point to one of the O’Malley boys and instruct them to open the gate for him. Then he thundered through the opening and was gone.

  She’d wanted to tell him not to worry.

  It’s Sarah we’re talking about! We should be worried about the poor buggers she meets along the way.

  But she hadn’t the heart to say it, even in jest. She watched the man crank the lever to close the front gate. It felt like the world outside was a swirling maelstrom of chaos straining to get inside.

  *****

  As soon as the Wicker Man began to lumber toward Sarah, she knew she was seeing something man-made. She held a stick she had been using as a makeshift cane but it would be of little use in defending herself.

  That didn’t appear to be necessary. In fact, it seemed as if the Wicker Man had come to the abrupt end of its abilities. It stood forty feet from her, branches and leaves jutting out from its head making it look unkempt and wild. It was the huddle of five men behind the wooden structure who were the source of its motion.

  Had they been following her?

  Was John with them?

  “Oy, Missus,” one of the men yelled to her. “Will ye come gentle or no?”

  “Where?” she responded, surprised her voice wasn’t shaking. The men came closer, leaving the Wicker Man leaning against a tree. They were bearded and dirty, their clothes barely more than rags. Two of them were barefooted.

  “Cormac will have a word,” one of the men said. His beard covered his mouth such that it looked like his lips weren’t moving. He held out a hand, the nails cracked and thick with grime. It’s as if a bunch of homeless people decided to go camping…

  Ignoring the outstretched hand, Sarah said “Lead. I will follow you.”

  Was she a prisoner? Did it matter? Isn’t this what she wanted? To get answers? Otherwise, she was just wandering aimlessly in the woods.

  Hopelessly.

  They turned and walked in the direction the men had c
ome, far from any semblance of a path, right though the thickest part of the woods. Sarah noticed they pushed into the bushes and were careful not to cut or rip the foliage as they went.

  She also noticed that the Wicker Man had mysteriously disappeared while she had been talking to them.

  Two men led the way and the other three followed behind Sarah. She moved slowly, favoring her injured knee. A part of her believed she was getting closer to John, that every step she took was bringing her closer. She jabbed the ground with her make-shift cane and strained to keep up with the man in the lead. But when she faltered because of an unseen root or had to stop and rest, nobody seemed to mind. The fact that she was coming with them seemed to be all that mattered. The light in the sky was dimming as the afternoon turned to early evening. They walked for over an hour.

  How did they know I was in that part of the woods? How did they know how to find me?

  At one point, the leader paused and spoke to Sarah. It was dark enough that she could only see his form, not his face, but his eyes glittered white in the gloom.

  “Are ye armed?” he asked.

  “No,” Sarah said. “Just me and my big stick.”

  He signaled to the men behind her and she felt strong hands grip her elbows and arms. She allowed them to pull and maneuver her the rest of the way. Twice, she stumbled but they didn’t let her fall. Before long, she saw a faint glow through the trees and smelled meat cooking. The men picked up the pace and soon she saw a large gap in the trees through which they stepped into a clearing broad enough to see the night sky.

  As they entered the clearing, Sarah was surprised to see children running in and out of the shadows. Two caravans had been set on each side of the entrance to create a sort of gate. Straight ahead was a campfire banked between a set of erected cross-bars jammed into the ground. A large blackened pot sat directly over the fire, the flames licking its sides and bottom. Two women stood near the pot but they were watching Sarah as her entourage entered the camp.

  The smell of cooking food made Sarah realize how hungry she was. And the knowledge seemed to weaken her. She looked at the circle of people standing in the clearing near the campfire. Surely, John wouldn’t be here. Would he? She scanned the faces of the people, men, women and children. Forty, maybe more. Dirty, suspicious, haunted.

  How in the world did Mike and Declan miss all this?

  Sarah realized how vulnerable she was when she gazed into the face of a woman her own age—and found nothing there but suspicion and fear. The men walked her haltingly to the campfire and she instinctively held her hands out to its warmth. The women tending the pot continued to stare at her. Even though Sarah had seen children in her arrival to the camp, all was now completely quiet.

  Only the sound of her heart pounding in her ears…

  Were these the people who killed the gypsies? And Mickey?

  The men released her and Sarah leaned on her walking stick. She looked around until she found the one in charge. The one Mike called Cormac. It had to be him. He sat opposite the campfire on a throne of robes, blankets, twigs and branches. He was bearded and wore his blondish-red hair long. He lips were twisted into a permanent sneer.

  “My men found your horse,” Cormac said. “We wondered when you might be along.”

  Sarah felt the rest of the people frozen in place around her, as if only she and Cormac belonged to this moment. At his side sat a tall man with a hairlip, his eyes were cruel and riveted on Sarah’s.

  “Rest yourself by the fire,” Cormac said, pointing to a spot next to him on the ground. Sarah had an irrational thought that once she was down she might never be allowed back up again. But it was no use. Her injured leg was throbbing and she was exhausted. She hobbled to where he sat and eased herself to the ground, clenching back a groan between her teeth.

  “You must be hungry,” he said. He raised his hand and one of the women brought a rough crockery bowl to him. Sarah could see the steam rising from it.

  It’s good to be king.

  He handed it to her and she clasped it to her chest, letting the heat from the bowl warm her.

  “We have no utensils, I’m afraid,” Cormac said. “We see them as an abomination created by the modern world.”

  “Forks and spoons are what you see as abominations?” Sarah said, inhaling the fragrance of the bowl.

  “Trappings of modern life,” he said. “Electricity, modern medicine. Most of the rest of Ireland now has to live without these things.”

  Except us in the compound. We still have those things.

  Sarah held the soup to her face and breathed deeply. It was some kind of game animal and she couldn’t recognize the herbs used to season it. It was all she could do not to drink it down.

  “You are afraid we will poison you,” he said softly.

  “No,” Sarah said. “Not as long as I don’t eat anything you give me.”

  “Why? Do you see anyone who is afraid for their life or behaving as if here against their will?”

  “Ever hear of Jonestown?”

  “Why do you distrust us?”

  “I met your famous Wicker Man tonight.”

  Cormac glanced briefly at his men, standing beside him now, with their hands behind their backs like woodland secret service.

  “Do you really know what you saw?”

  “Well, I saw a bunch of twigs and bushes lashed together to look like a giant man but really it was just a bunch of twigs and bushes.”

  “I wouldn’t try to persuade you otherwise.” He reached out and took the bowl from Sarah and drank it down, then wiped his mouth and handed the empty bowl to a woman who silently retreated.

  It didn’t surprise Sarah to see the women behave as servants here. The Crisis had sent most women tumbling back centuries as far as rights and respect. She wondered what the soup woman had done before the Crisis. She was in her early thirties and good looking. She probably once had a management job in an office. And now she brings soup to a megalomaniacal nut job who thinks he’s the head of his own religion.

  Sarah felt a flash of anger. Enough of this bullshit.

  “Why was Mickey wearing Gavin’s shirt?”

  Cormac stared at Sarah, his smile gone.

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “You told Mike you hadn’t seen Gavin but you did see him, didn’t you? How else would Mickey be wearing his shirt?”

  “The lad worshipped with us one night.”

  Were his hands tied when he worshipped with you? Was there a gun to his head?

  “And then what? He decided to join the merchant marines the next morning? Because he never came home.”

  Cormac’s face was impassive, with not even a facial tic to reveal his feelings.

  “I don’t know where the lad went afterward,” he said. “T’is the truth.”

  How do you make someone tell you what they know if they’re intent on lying to you? But if they’d killed Gavin, would they try to hide it? They hadn’t with Mickey.

  “You didn’t…sacrifice him?” she asked.

  “Not at-tall. For that matter the old man wasn’t an offering either,” Cormac said. “At the end of the day, he was more of a message.”

  “In that case I’m afraid we missed the subtext. Care to spell it out for me?”

  Cormac stretched his legs out, prompting Sarah to move over to avoid touching him.

  “The old man was taken by Morrigan,” he said, matter-of-factly, “as, I’m afraid, will anyone else be who works on the mill.”

  “So you’ll kill anyone who works on the mill? Why?”

  “It is an affront to our way of life. To the sanctity of all nature. To Ireland, itself.”

  “But killing children is okay?”

  “What you’re referring to is a glorious offering that connects the mortal realm to heaven itself.”

  “It’s murder.”

  Cormac held out his hands in a shrug.

  “I told you we didn’t kill the old man,” he s
aid. “The goddess Morrigan took him—gently and with respect—under a canopy of black elder leaves.”

  “And the multiple stab wounds?”

  Cormac frowned. “Ritualistic only. You’ll have noticed there was no blood?”

  It was true that the fact that there had been little blood was compatible with the wounds being made post-mortem. But without an autopsy or CSI lab nearby, they would never know whether Mickey was poisoned, stabbed or just had an ill-timed heart attack.

  Sarah decided to switch tactics. If she left here alive tonight, she needed to leave with answers. Finding Gavin was the most important because that would also lead to finding John.

  “Gavin was seen leaving our compound with someone,” she said.

  “That is true.”

  Sarah was startled at this ready admission.

  “Who?” she asked.

  “A friend.”

  “So there’s a druid living among us at the compound.”

  “Possibly a druid. That is still to be decided. He is in any case…sympathetic.”

  “When Mike met you in the woods two nights ago, where was Gavin?”

  “Here at the camp. He continued his journey the next morning.”

  “Why didn’t he return home?”

  Cormac shrugged. “The very air around us is full of answers if you’ve a mind to listen. The trees and the creatures in the woods all have wisdom to share.”

  “Why did Gavin remove his favorite shirt? Can you at least share that?”

  “Because I asked him to.”

  “So Mickey was dead, either by a heart attack or angry wood nymphs, and you made Gavin give up his shirt so his father would think he was finding Gavin’s body.”

  “The lad was happy to do it.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”

  “Sure, you’ve got us pegged all wrong. We’re not evil. Not at-tall.”

  “You kill people.”

  “As with anything worth having, we make necessary sacrifices.”

  “To appease the fairy gods.”

  “You’re welcome to eat our food and we’ll see you returned safely to your home tomorrow, Missus, but I’ll not have you disparaging our faith.”